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Left Foot Poet Jun 2018
a thousand brilliant lies
(Hafez, Iran 1320-1389);      (L.F.P., USA 20~21st century)

- Hafez -                                 - Left Foot Poet-

“I have a                                  if only, in my meager posses,
thousand brilliant lies,          but one lie when easy asked
For the question:                    the simplest damning of,
How are you?                          are you generally happy?

I have a                                    what is god you ask,
thousand brilliant lies.          no lies required,
For the question:                    many answers upon my face visible,
What is God?                          unsure if any worthy of believing

If you think that the               8 centuries separate us, yet
Truth can be known,              you lie; we poets - you, I, all believe

From words                             in the divinity of words

If you think that the                a thousand brilliant sparkles
Sun and the Ocean,                 when Sun loves the Ocean,
Can pass through that            each one a poem passing,
tiny opening Called                my mouth, my wide eyes,
the mouth,                                uttering a Cohen's hallelujah

O someone should                 So we gleam, mirthing in glorious
start laughing!                         and gleeful delight at ourselves
Someone should start             for your brilliant happy lies easily
wildly Laughing Now!"       
                            
                      
­                            unravel into a thousand laughs
hafez
Excepting me, God only knows the truth which here I tell.
(And if I lie may lightning strike me!  I'll see you all in hell!)
In Scotland Yard there is a shred of damning evidence:
A silken handkerchief clean and white, and certainly a gent's.
And stitched into a single corner a monogram appears,
A well-embroidered S and H.  It's been there all these years.
In Scotland Yard remains the clue that honest Truth supplied;
And Jack the Ripper was Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes's Hyde.
Andrew Aug 2017
We think in money patterns
No peace from here to Saturn
When we live in money caverns
Tranquility lies in the clatter
Of echoes bouncing off walls
Traveling down darkened halls
Yet to be seriously explored
Where knowledge is stored
But the paths are abyssal
Leading to our dismissal
We cower next to the fire
It once provided light and warmth
Now we're just fascinated by it's chaos

I know I'm right
Eventually humanity will evolve
And if humanity doesn't reach that point
I'd be more correct than I'd like to have been

We need to withdraw from this system
And buy stock in each other
Whether you're Muslim or Christian
We should still be brothers
For we pursue freedom
As they purchase kingdoms
We wither in the waters of their wealth
We can see this isn't good for our health
When our species' main asset is empathy
And understanding
Now reaches no longer than the interest fee
And we're damning
Ourselves to a life in the furnace
With no humanity to be purchased
Matt Shaw Nov 2016
It changes you to ruin it.
To act is to offer up a court of law
To an imperfect judge
As justification seeps in from all sides.

A young boy is still learning.

He can steal a toy and just as soon be sorry,
Like a puppy, and be earnest in his love's intention

But as we age we harden,
and to look down at witness your hands
doing a damning thing
Rings with a phrase like "narrow specialization."
It changes you
And to hold it in suspense is better but that can madden you.

It's so important that we choose the second option anyway
That we try to change and combat the patterns that can begin to consume our lives
Don't get used to ruining your life out of spite
You're worth it
You can really work yourself up into something even greater
You already have
Take it to a new level!
L B Jul 2017
Could the sun be
    just
    a hole up there—
    that if I could leap
    would enter that breach of light

Someone!
   Throw me a line!
   Give me a reason
   There’s never enough
   in this life of breathing!

Someone!
   Explain why dreams roll a soul
   toward the cliffs of day
   Wakes to ache
   then stuffs its mouth
   with necessary same
  
Inhale—
   button shirt—brush hair
Exhale—
   necessary glance in the mirror
   (yes, still there)    

A lifetime!
   in a shallow instant’s stiff clear water
   (Yeah— still there)  
   in endless caverns of tired eyes
   above mouth still trying
   to say SOMETHING!  
   from ever smaller eternities
   in the glass-flat empty....

Please! Someone explain!
   this draw of breath
   one forcing itself upon another's
   life
   of beating —
   Violence in my chest!

Why hearts don’t sleep—

and I wind up watching
again and again—till
I am the ******...

...Morning lies
   in the mists of a humid *****
   who moans and sweats
   and boils her hips—
   and I wind up watching!?

“Will someone please…!"

   ...and I wind up watching
   bedspread, bed sore, death bed
   till you’re breathing easy
   when she sits and picks
   her collapsed bouffant
   damning the makeup
   that got crushed in the sheets

…Morning
Lies--

   with no expectancy
   both tired of knowing...

   ...The Devil lost his balance
   in my presence one night


...tired of knowing—

THE WILL!  
THAT WILL!

  ...walk away
   or continue to play

   I could open this screen!
   watch the world STEP BACK!
                                 SLAP FLAT!
   as trees and dwellings flush like quail
   to prop their tottering panic
   against the blue—

You—assume composure...
   compose assumptions
   Await my next—

Move like a spy
1990
Why I don’t play chess or any other game
for that matter.    
    
“...and when you're really out there
the windows all have opened onto nothing...
Death having long since-- left the scene.
When you get really out there
it's all--
and nothing…”
Left Foot Poet Mar 2018
cellphone to heart, mobile to immobile, electric dead to living

you know that sleep and I are but passing acquaintances,
when it drops in, to heavy my lids, it is through a cracked window slivered, just enough for a Pan boy to grab me and away me to Almost Neverland

when the alarms sound that it’s sleepy time,
(quite like that quiet verse)
no time to delist the “those pre-shluffy to do things,”
cell drop upon my chest, like an open mic,
then the raging observatory tapestry begins!

the cell lies directly above my ventricular chamber,
and communication is live, the brain cutoff switch, well, cutoff

all manner of imps, devils, rejected poems, angels and
Greek gods and some Indian as well, stand in line for to make
free calls via a beating human message call center, utilizing my friends and family verizon plan to register complaints,
close out unfinished biz, or just contact, friends, family or other
mischievous imps or even you, in other time zone worlds

though my brain may not interfere, like the CIA, it records all
conversations and give me a list of new poem titles, notions, stories glories and wrenching heartbreaking heartbreak,
requiring “fleshing out” when I awake from my three fingers
of scotch, glass eye tears drops made me drunk,

damning this transmigration chorus of voices that offer up a treasure of divine humankind’s hopes and travails,
and the occasional call on the divine’s 1-800 confession line,
hear it all, my chewing out by one particular god of mine who does not suffer my criticisms well of his ungodly actions, nope not sweetly and

when else would he dare contact me, except when no edgewise
words of mine can appear to contradict his mealy mouth excuses

did you musty misty mistake  my poems  as the product of
the miracle water wages of my imaginary inspiration,
no, not, from the replaying of your desperate exclamations,
the cancerous shrieks of loss and prickly investiture of the aesthetics of soft whispers and solitary foot treads,
that is where my insanity is bred, and tumbling s-words, sworn

don’t consider it eavesdropping as there is no signed rental agreement, consider this unfair warning, if you should secret use my cellular line, your everything is now ******,
your genetic material is materialistic mine and my poems yours,
this bittersweet sentiment is a measure of our bloods commingling,
your tears and impish silliness, are shiny hidden within mine

somehow I feel compelled to state this unique statistic:

I love you

4:47pm on 3/11

who writes poems like this?
silly old boys with gray hair, standing on one left leg.  but you knew that, right?
L B Jul 2018
Can I tell you how seriously I take this poem!
_
Could the sun be
    just
    a hole up there—
    that if I could leap
    would enter that breach of light

Someone!
   Throw me a line!
   Give me a reason
   There’s never enough
   in this life of breathing!

Someone!
   Explain why dreams roll a soul
   toward the cliffs of day
   Wakes to ache
   then stuffs its mouth
   with necessary same
  
Inhale—
   button shirt—brush hair
Exhale—
   necessary glance in the mirror
   (yes, still there)    

A lifetime!
   in a shallow instant’s stiff clear water
   (Yeah— still there)  
   in endless caverns of tired eyes
   above mouth still trying
   to say SOMETHING!  
   from ever smaller eternities
   in the glass-flat empty....

Please! Someone explain!
   this draw of breath
   one forcing itself upon another's
   life
   of beating —
   Violence in my chest!

Why hearts don’t sleep—

and I wind up watching
again and again—till
I am the ******...

...Morning lies
   in the mists of a humid *****
   who moans and sweats
   and boils her hips—
   and I wind up watching!?

“Will someone please…!"

   ...and I wind up watching
   bedspread, bed sore, death bed
   till you’re breathing easy
   when she sits and picks
   her collapsed bouffant
   damning the makeup
   that got crushed in the sheets

…Morning
Lies--

   with no expectancy
   both tired of knowing...

   ...The Devil lost his balance
   in my presence one night


...tired of knowing—

THE WILL!  
THAT WILL!

  ...walk away
   or continue to play

   I could open this screen!
   watch the world STEP BACK!
                                 SLAP FLAT!
   as trees and dwellings flush like quail
   to prop their tottering panic
   against the blue—

You—assume composure...
   compose assumptions
   Await my next—

Move like a spy


1990


Take careful note:  

Why I don’t play chess or any other game
for that matter.
    
    
“...and when you're really out there
the windows all have opened onto nothing...
Death having long since-- left the scene.
When you get really out there
it's all--
and nothing…”
Kitt Jul 2017
The Wheel of Time continues on
the damning repetition of a spindling Journey
slaving away on the Wheel's unforgiving madness
caught on the Spokes of Eternity,
just a piece
an arc hardly arching in the grandness
hardly varying in the vastness of forever
your entire Existence contained in a Segment
of the Wheel that drives us
forward.
Nat Lipstadt May 23
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation

raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down

she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”

gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet

she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of  “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******,
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm

I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup

her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments

parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,

copied right from the tongue of a woman!


and she would be wright...
complementary to
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3155692/excerpt-my-muddled-woman-mind/
a tribute to all the women that have inspired so many of my poems

19/23/05
Kewayne Wadley Feb 2017
In contemporary belief.
A archer went to a shaman for relief.
A answer to ease fear of thoughts.
Finding his way home, the trail of war became too much.
He struggled with the regret of building a life away from what he knew.
When he came to the shaman.
The shaman hung his head low.
Smelling the stinch of blood.
Still he could not turn his back to the archer.
When posed with the young archers question.
He sat puzzled. Summering the long winded statement to "a great change must be made. Else all will fade."
Knowing of the young archers longing for a maiden.
The archer looked puzzled.
Yet the shaman spoke nothing else.

The young archer was called upon.
A war broke on the opposing side.
They needed his skill in fear that survival was utmost.
Without time to think the archer grabbed his bow. His arrows and darted quickly in the direction the war has taken place.
He quickly coiled arrow to bow. In repeated motion until none were left.
A field of arrows covered the small space.
War does something to a man.
A brief clarity after the slaughter of contemplation.
The shamans words dawned upon him like a snake.
He darted to the shamans place in great discoverly.
Finding that the shaman as well as his possessions were completely gone without trace.
He darted back to the field.
Searching through a forrest of arrow.
A heart wrenching feeling stuck on his face.
Guiding his way through the arrows he found a familar hand. Connected to a familar torso.
A face stuck in agonizing eternity.
The shamans words made more sense.
Backing away from the body.
Thinking deeply. Damning his hands.
The thing that came as habit.
He broke his bow in the reflection of his maiden's eyes.
This war gone astray inside of him
Azaria Nov 2018
riding you
bones on bones
your breath
filling the silence
when i throw it
back
i am powerful
light-skinned foul
mouthed goddess
i am crowned
at the movement
of your hips
validated
by the impressions
of your fingertips
asking me to
stay in this moment
forever
post-blunt
smoke clouds
clearing
and revealing
your face
smoking and
loving
a religious experience:
your glorious laughter
a transfiguration
of all the damning
parts of me
Sarah Clark Aug 13
days ****** calamity,
jaw sticking out, riding
for his life alone. unrealized
heart mangled, beats
like sounds raged. came
as bark, then water,

in bars travelled-
emptied kings wrapped
a thousand bulging angers,
evil men, crate men rattling
cold drinking the mug
like an artery draining.

Silvanus in swamp fog
tongue, collar
              pressed to creatures
looking born, crossing sense,
damning the judges, panting-

        reinventing an unkempt time

        and our man snuffing
                               the last match to see by.
The minute you told me about
Your Bishop and the creepy questions
From worthiness interviews,
I knew we were
My Sister

"Oh, you have?"
Bishop McClain's eyes perked
Just a little, she swears,
A flash of excitement betrayed his
Next look of concern

"Can you tell me about the last time?
How long ago was it?
Where you alone?
Were the individuals
Completely naked in the pictures?"

She reminds me now
That she is barely twelve years old
Having celebrated just last week...
Hence the private meeting,
An annual check-up

You told me how he
Started to breathe heavier
And deeper with each new
Damning detail and necessary
Follow-up questions

A dentist five days a week and
An un-paid Judge of Isreal on Sundays,
Until an equally creepy
Accountant is called to serve
Over the Apple Valley Ward

I loved how you sipped
Your ***** every time McClain's
Name disgraced your mouth
Leaving you in need to wash
His foul taste from your tongue

And when the story flashed forward
To your honeymoon ten years later
I had an educated suspicion
Of where this story might be
Headed

The man you loved unbuttoned your
Pants and his breathe was so
Heavy you froze but unsure why,
Some zombie-you taking over
To get the job done


The real you, you tell me,
Was floating ten feet above the bed
Looking but not looking
Like a ghost trying to solve its
Own ******

Eventually you did,
Your love's breathe was too familiar,
But it wasn't without years of therapy
Threats of divorce and
Occasional talks of suicide

You tell me you'll never know
How much of your struggles now
Have their roots in a church
You gave your everything to
And I knew just what you meant
“The doctrine of this Church is that ****** sin — the illicit ****** relations of men and women — stands, in its enormity, next to ******.  The Lord has drawn no essential distinctions between fornication, adultery, and harlotry or prostitution. Each has fallen under His solemn and awful condemnation.” (First Presidency Message of October 1942)
Destiny C Dec 2018
My demons were all chasing after me.
Their maliciously distorted faces,
and chilling taunts created pandemonium in the cold air.
As I ran away to hide,
I felt my legs moving at a painful speed.
But I pushed on despite the stabbing pains pulsing at my sides,
and blisters forming on me feet.
I couldn't let my demons catch me,
because then that would mean defeat.
Just as I was nearing my safe place,
I stumbled onto one of life's stepping stones.
As I fell onto the floor,
I heard my demons gnashing at their teeth,
ready to devour their helpless victim.
I began to push myself up off the beaten road,
ready to accept my damning fate,
but as I looked upon my demons-
I saw nothing.
Minuscule Ego Aug 14
I don’t see anything wrong here! She yells
There’s nothing fumy about keeping this one
Nothing wrong with having love n’ him around
The only obsession is you and the lines you ring
There’s a bliss in this opening, so stop fuming it
Quit fighting it or be the one I’ll forever loathe
Have you ever want n’ needed a thing so bad
That at night you find it so damning to sleep
I’m just okay in his arms, n’ she turned in
Resentment and walked to her delights

He hiss n’ shook his mind at her mistake
As a stench of foul memories filled its wake
A man may be good and alive in the morning
But becomes unnoticed as the evening comes
So do not sacrifice yourself so much, he hissed
There is nothing else you can do or say, it insist
When this temptation bring in its extinguisher
The sourness of its lust will be bamboozling
It does not matter how sure she is, he says
The trick is as long as you know the truth
And who he really is; lest you say more
For the affairs of man is always a path
He follows. So fuel the painful urges

Grasp it till you can struggle no more
For life comes as a mirror; no matter how
Long a lie may live; the truth always reveals
For what’s a man without his potter; a broken
What is a mother without a son – heartbroken
But there’s a silver lining to every dark cloud
That if heavens took care of fools n’ drunks
They sure as hell qualified for both counts
That if he took to works n’ abhor his ways
Whose duty to ask why or even cry foul

Who’s the judge to have him cut down
Who has the right to read his sins aloud
Who? It kills him that passion he once felt
Now lies in broken shards – wounding him
Each time he tries to grab it again –  a soldier
His life,  he cannot have it as he wants it to be
A lone, so he just wanders alone in the crowd
As her delights struggle to keep his sun down
He does not answer em – he dare not to fight
He just go about n’ rise; defeating their gees
And their frowns; they live and yet few die
Some cave n’ drown their souls in lament
But he lives to tell a story, wisdom lives
To feed them his glories

“TRY LOVING YOUR ENEMIES AND YOU WILL SLEEP PEACEFULLY AT NIGHT”
Archimandrite Andreas
Captured at last. My quiverful
did shake your ransom loose—vain price
of novel circumstance, rebounding
up the mudhills of the past,
up mires that swallow shoes and grief
us for a thimbleful of how
it really felt. You dealt your doings'
deal, wound up a scattered reel
of torments: roses on the vine
that fell on thorny wrists to leech
the somedays from your spreading wings.
Bare respite in the hands of kings
who deign to manage what good things
go wrong: one laughed and out went song.
Two stood and shook out lies. Three spoke
and gouged out others' views of yours
as empty summer eyes. Recapped
in major ways to generally fawn,
yet flip a nonsense-script
to hammer bad words home and sire
a signal-damning tome to scratch
ancestors' heads (as we would do
if we could meet them)—Mysteries
to greet them, burdens on the sleeve
of he who dared dig mud: I linger.  
What I free will sting or sear
or singe, but noise is what one makes
when stranded on the fringe.
poetryaccident Oct 2018
Evidence becomes the coin
determining worth on the scales
already rigged from the start
with no measure to dissuade

when morality is the judge
of a world they’d like to purge
all will fall beneath their gaze
when the virtue is misplaced

evil witnessed outside a book
or experience of the self
both are seen as paradigm
to the ones that are assured

madness lays down those paths
even while hearts are pure
identifying outside the lines
the normative is put aside

deviants by their choice
that’s when nature is most pure
without deceit verbalized
even though the masses cry

normative becomes the chant
damning all that are unique
now proof condones everything
or lack thereof to place the hate.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181001.
The poem “Proof Condones” was inspired by the actions of people who demand evidence for the legitimately of the LGBTQ spectrum.  People from both binary ends are quick to exclaim that the middle does not really exist.  There seems to be a call to provide proof dating, intimate encounters, and chromosome level testing.  These calls are requested for the sake of evidence-based credentials.  Sadly this discredits what the spectrum knows is true for themselves.  Regardless of experience and appearance, the B, Q, and T of LGBTQ are in a position to KNOW who they truly are.  The need for proof, especially proof tied to supposed moral or purity standards, is both hateful and destructive.
Classy J Mar 25
Once again Classy J the definition of a sin,
Deceased kindness that passes down to my kin.
Addiction restricting timeless memories that pour's softly within.
Sadly this is the only time warmth ever greets me,
Can I ever change? Beats me?
So maybe when history gets spun again and again the future has no choice but to be grim?
Fairy-tales woven into white lie's that negate horrific sins.
Minds going crazy that's got me turning into Harley Quinn.
Happily never after reforming heroes, that severs off well intended meanings.
Exceedingly dreary reality fraught with fog that makes it hard to see where we first began.  
That lights holy crosses on fire like the ku klux ****.
Entrapping lost souls inside a raven claws diadem.
No glad tidings left residing in thee,
When humanity keeps going on killing sprees.
Will we ever be truly free?
Or is freedom just a double edged poisoned sword like a hamlet tragedy?
Fending off hatred but how can one do it peacefully?
For even with civil rights the media still has no problem linching minorities!
So I’m left Watching as nightmarishly thin cows start eating up the healthy ones, who knew one vision of a Pharaoh could become reality?
For when good comes, the bad comes shortly after, so maybe instead of pointless debates we need to implement actions?
In order to have a true happily ever after!
But that all depends on us incompetent humans who divide everything and everyone into class systems.
With phobias turning others inhuman or illegal aliens that are in need for dissection.
Chopping up our own kin or refusing to vaccinate them because some stupid doctor claimed it causes autism.
So, we’d rather **** our children rather than having them associate within a disorderly spectrum.
Hmm. If you ask me that’s pretty ******* dum!
Guess that’s what happens when humanity tries to hard to get to the sun?
Thinking ourselves as God’s that be damning what others have said or done.
Getting offended over everything, man this **** is sure getting tiresome!
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